


somewhere to belong

by pecanut



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drunkenness, Explicit Language, Gun Violence, Implied Underage Sex, M/M, Mentions of past Sakuatsu, Murder, Side Sunaosa, Slow Burn, yakuza!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pecanut/pseuds/pecanut
Summary: A regret for endearment, cracked lips tasting ephemeral and forever at once, bodies stained in sins both can’t outrun even years after every heartstring has been plucked on and mended like Terpsichore does on her lyre. Atsumuremembers.Hyogo was Inarizaki’s safe haven for years, but the night Osaka’s rendered split in two by the attack of a powerful yakuza group from Tokyo the foxes are intent on getting what belongs to them back.An investigation downtown should’ve been the simplest task Atsumu had been assigned to ever since he worked for Kita, then.But of course this wasn’t for Sakusa Kiyoomi to be the very object of it all.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	somewhere to belong

**Author's Note:**

> for esmé.

The shades of evening drew on.

  
  


Once he hit the pavement he started running, laughter clinging to both lungs, yet never really slipping past impious lips. The first shot was fired, only leaving the wail of the wretch in its wake, or perhaps that’s the unremitting howl of the beast that’s been on his tail since his heel very slammed the concrete. 

Closer than he thinks he can feel wintry breaths spewed out like flower petals in the sultry air searing his molten exterior down to the bones of his ribcage, a fiend awakened from a crave for revenge as the moon cast pale light upon both men’s heads. A bullet hisses by his ear, leaving its golden metal bite printed onto his fire suffused cheek, and suddenly within vapors of a soju drink Atsumu thinks he used to know one man insane enough to miss a first shot in sheer mockery.

“Sakusa,” he whispers through gritted teeth. 

There’s silence and emptiness, a flick of a wrist buckling a loaded gun back to the holster around its thin waist, and Atsumu notices that it’s already blood-stained. Osaka’s business districts are bustling beneath the hillside. He’s entrapped between unbidden feelings, sleek black leather and brittle stitches within, and the man before him — beautiful in his stance. 

_ Dark suit, dark hair and dark eyes .  _ Sakusa’s always been so dark, even back in the days they were working together. A grin betrays Atsumu’s composure. 

It’s been a while.

“Unfortunately,” Sakusa responds, voice dripping sour though tasting the heavens from unspoken excitment. “Are you still playing suicide missions by your age, Miya?” 

“Look who’s talkin’,” says Atsumu. “Weren’tcha the one whose boss sent to Hyogo to blow up Kita-san’s whole property ? Lemme guess, didja comply ‘cause ya were achin’ to see me?”

“Still so full of yourself, I see,” Sakusa comments. “I guess your life goes the same as before. Doesn’t seem like you’ve changed much, after all.” 

“Thank you for worrying so much,” responds Atsumu, more stung than he would’ve liked to admit it. “My life goes just fine.”

_ Without you ,  _ he doesn’t say. Those words remain stuck in the back of his throat as it occurs it’s a lie which his tongue coated in rancor cannot pronounce, or perhaps this man who can’t shed the weight of the past hasn’t seen much change since that night tasting of regrets and white lies. 

Love always leads to loss, sure, though when Atsumu’s wounds still lack threads and stitches after years of undying pain he sometimes wishes he hadn’t loved at all.

“Well, I would gladly lengthen this touching moment,” Sakusa says as he draws out his gun, aiming at his old sidekick again. “But one of us is dying tonight, Miya.” 

“Yeah,” responds the other man.

As he drowns in ink beneath the surface of his eyes Atsumu can vaguely recall the taste of a soju drink suffusing through every crevice of a virgin mouth, fingers feeling for warmth, or sometimes fluttering over the face of a man unclothed (yet always dressed in the murk of late nights). Oh !  _ he’s the man  _ . 

The man who’s about to lodge a bullet in the middle of his forehead is the man who used to touch his body like no one was around, the man who used to paint on his skin from the tip of his lips like there were no bruises afterwards, the man who used to make love to him through the silence of the night like it wasn’t the very last.

They used to love, like they’d never lose.

“Go ahead,” Atsumu says. “Ya get to start, since I’m the one who’s gonna make it outta this alive.”

“How considerate, Miya,” Sakusa laughs, finger heavy on the trigger.

Atsumu huffs out a laugh. He’s paralyzed, tied from the roots of his pretty roses, denying memories forced inside his mind from thorned spells dripping on his chin like poison and honey. A regret for endearment, cracked lips tasting ephemeral and forever at once, bodies stained in sins both can’t outrun even years after every heartstring has been plucked on and mended like Terpsichore does on her lyre. Atsumu  _ remembers _ . Sakusa pulls the trigger. He’s cold, yet from the shaking that’s settled doubt within every finger of a nicely gloved hand both can sense that  _ he’s never really forgotten _ .

His love, always a dimple etched in the cheek fostering a signature smile, ever since the night fingertips tainted in sin stamped indelible scrapes into his nude back, has embedded its face in the drip of ink that’s written poems of both forgiveness and betrayal within every pigment of his skin, and tethered fated souls to the margins until both lovers died. Those stitches and scars are a constant reminder of who they were — of everything  _ this  _ was.

Tonight, Sakusa’s about to forget.

Atsumu isn’t afraid of death. He’s never been. The bullet is quite easy to dodge, though precisely aimed. The faintest shift of his legs would do the trick. 

So why can’t he move a single limb ? 

A curse for disaster mars ungodly lips. Distantly Atsumu remembers the blur of a few unwavering words, the pleasant scent of spice incense, the sleek blackness of tight closed curtains. His brother is standing beside him, back bent in a clumsy reverence.

_ Blood.  _ It’s printed into diaphanous skin, staining faces and fingers. 

_ “Yakuza duties imply taking lives away.”  _

_ Blood.  _ It’s painting a fox in the crook of a neck clad in nothing but wine red satin, flooding both inside the living and the cesspool beneath the household.

_ “You can’t escape from fate.”  _

A Kitsune mask is worn as a veil, wine red stains across porcelain subduing perpetual stings and burns that won’t fade, to conceal the face of the man who’s swaying gently amidst the dark from the world’s unclothing gaze. Thoughts slip throughout the young boy’s head, too faint to grasp. Atsumu falls. He falls for a promise, for a gift, for the man who cares for him and for the man he shouldn’t care for. He falls, and his jaw shatters onto Inarizaki’s threshold. 

_ “There’s always someone watching.”  _

Nothing stirred but the wind as the Kumicho spoke. Atsumu remembers the very instant of rapture he belonged somewhere, a hand held out for him to take, the first painting of his eyes (pigments seeping into skin like blood into silk, wine red). Atsumu falls, over and over and over again. 

There’s silence that doesn’t last, liquor at the bottom of a single glass, fingers laced in a vow for love and peace of mind. 

A shriek of a gunshot rings around the street like unremitting laughter Sakusa cannot seem to hush. There’s a terrible irony, something powerless to camouflage the true nature of a heart, that’s crept beneath his skin down to the core of his bones and set the deepest crevices of him aflame.  _ regrets, regrets, regrets.  _ Atsumu throws on a signature grin, and suddenly Sakusa  _ remembers, too .  _

Ghosting lips leaving scorching stamps all over the body that’s trembling for dear life beneath them, throat wrapped in black leather (it’s a mere elegant noose, to betray the sight of others, framing a crying face like a necklace of pretty thorned flowers) or sometimes in loving hands. The bullet deflects and a voice rises from the night, again. 

“Party’s over, ‘Tsumu.”

Two shadows are walking through the fog, chasing the dark in their paths. The concrete trembles under the weight of each of their strides. Atsumu swallows thickly, heart lodged in his throat, threatening to break out of its arteries at the mere thought of embracing death from so close, or perhaps it’s some reluctant knowledge of their unbidden guests’ intentions. There isn’t the merest sound of a breath, nor the slightest stir of a man, but only the bleeding of the moon through the sheer veil of the clouds. 

Eyes painted red, flickering like embers, the foxes are running through the streets like they own the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I doubt this story will get much views ! I’m not writing the first sakuatsu mafia au ever, after all, but I like to practice my writing with that kind of gore & bloody stuff that is just so inspiring ! As a small writer I really do appreciate any type of feedback and constructive criticism, so feel free to leave a comment !


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